Lord Mistletoe when in London lived at the family house in Piccadilly, and thither early on the Sunday morning she sent a note to say that she especially wished to see her cousin and would call at three o’clock on that day. The messenger brought back word that Lord Mistletoe would be at home, and exactly at that hour the hired brougham stopped at the door. Her mother had wished to accompany her but she had declared that if she could not go alone she would not go at all. In that she was right; for whatever favour the young heir to the family honours might retain for his fair cousin, who was at any rate a Trefoil, he had none for his uncle’s wife. She was shown into his own sitting-room on the ground floor, and then he immediately joined her. “I wouldn’t have you shown upstairs,” he said, “because I understand from your note that you want to see me in particular.”
“That is so kind of you.”
Lord Mistletoe was a young man about thirty, less in stature than his father or uncle, but with the same handsome inexpressive face. Almost all men take to some line in life. His father was known as a manager of estates; his uncle as a whist-player; he was minded to follow the steps of his grandfather and be a statesman. He was eaten up by no high ambition but lived in the hope that by perseverance he might live to become a useful Under Secretary, and perhaps, ultimately, a Privy Seal. As he was well educated and laborious, and had no objection to sitting for five hours together in the House of Commons with nothing to do and sometimes with very little to hear, it was thought by his friends that he would succeed. “And what is it I can do?” he said with that affable smile to which he had already become accustomed as a government politician.
“I am in great trouble,” said Arabella, leaving her hand for a moment in his as she spoke.
“I am sorry for that. What sort of trouble?” He knew that his uncle and his aunt’s family were always short of money, and was already considering to what extent he would go in granting her petition.
“Do you know Lord Rufford?”
“Lord Rufford! Yes;—I know him; but very slightly. My father knows him very much better than I do.”
“I have just been at Mistletoe, and he was there. My story is so hard to tell. I had better out with it at once. Lord Rufford has asked me to be his wife.”
“The deuce he has! It’s a very fine property and quite unembarrassed.”
“And now he repudiates his engagement.” Upon hearing this the young lord’s face became very long. He also had heard something of the past life of his handsome cousin, though he had always felt kindly to her. “It was not once only.”
“Dear me! I should have thought your father would be the proper person.”
“Papa has written;—but you know what papa is.”
“Does the Duke know of it—or my mother?”
“It partly went on at Mistletoe. I would tell you the whole story if I knew how.” Then she did tell him her story, during the telling of which he sat profoundly silent. She had gone to stay with Lady Penwether at Lord Rufford’s house, and then he had first told her of his love. Then they had agreed to meet at Mistletoe, and she had begged her aunt to receive her. She had not told her aunt at once, and her aunt had been angry with her because they had walked together. Then she had told everything to the Duchess and had begged the Duchess to ask the Duke to speak to Lord Rufford. At Mistletoe Lord Rufford had twice renewed his offer—and she had then accepted him. But the Duke had not spoken to him before he left the place. She owned that she thought the Duchess had been a little hard to her. Of course she did not mean to complain, but the Duchess had been angry with her because she had hunted. And now, in answer to the note from herself, had come a letter from Lord Rufford in which he repudiated the engagement. “I only got it yesterday and I came at once to you. I do not think you will see your cousin treated in that way without raising your hand. You will remember that I have no brother?”
“But what can I do?” asked Lord Mistletoe.
She had taken great trouble with her face, so that she was able to burst out into tears. She had on a veil which partly concealed her. She did not believe in the effect of a pocket handkerchief, but sat with her face half averted. “Tell him what you think about it,” she said.
“Such engagements, Arabella,” he said, “should always be authenticated by a third party. It is for that reason that a girl generally refers her lover to her father before she allows herself to be considered as engaged.”
“Think what my position has been! I wanted to refer him to my uncle and asked the Duchess.”
“My mother must have had some
